


Good Things

by CdnGingerGirl



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: AU, Fluff, Gen, Johnlock Gift Exchange, Kidlock, Sort of magical realism, unicornandrainbowloand
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-15
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-12 11:40:04
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1185806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CdnGingerGirl/pseuds/CdnGingerGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tired of being without friends, child Sherlock decides to build one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Things

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unicornandrainbowland](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=unicornandrainbowland).



> I was asked to be a backup for the Johnlock Valentine's Exchange on Tumblr. unicornandrainbowland's prompt was "Johnlock building a snowman". I decided to go in a Kidlock AU direction. Slight magical realism. I hope you enjoy your gift!

Once upon a time, there was a boy named Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock lived with his mother and his brother Mycroft in house in the country. It was quite far from any other house; in fact, Sherlock had never seen another house, and once he had walked quite far away, for at least a whole morning.

In general, Sherlock didn’t mind solitude; it gave him the time to conduct his experiments and no one ever contradicted him. But sometimes he got tired of being with just Mycroft, especially because Mycroft was older and boring and spent all his time reading enormous books without pictures.

In one of his own books, Sherlock read about two boys who had adventures together and did simply marvellous things, like going to the creek and sailing tiny boats, or being pirates and sinking the boats. The book kept referring to the two boys as “friends”. This was not a word Sherlock knew.

When he looked it up in Mycroft’s giant dictionary, it simply told him that a friend was a “person attached to another by feelings of affection or personal regard”. Sherlock was bright, and had no trouble deciphering the meaning: friends were people who liked each other. But aside from Mummy and Mycroft, both of whom he loved (although he didn’t always admit it), Sherlock didn’t have anyone he could spend time with, or who could spend time with him, just because they liked each other.

The more he considered the situation, the more he felt the need to resolve it favourably. But there were no houses nearby, and so he had no hope of meeting another boy. He set his considerable eight-year-old intellect to bear on the problem.

His mother was fond telling him two things: that good things came to good people, and that good things came to those who waited. However, Sherlock knew better: you had to make things come to you, not wait forever. So he decided to make a friend.

He tried all through the summer and the fall. His friend made of sticks was good in the summer, but dried up in the fall, and was destroyed when Mycroft took him to use in a fire. His friend made of grass simply blew away. Sherlock wanted to try bricks next, but he reasoned that a brick friend would be too heavy to take anywhere, and anyway, he couldn’t find enough bricks.

The solution came with the first proper snowfall of the winter. Sherlock couldn’t believe he’d been so blind. It was so obvious! Snow would be the perfect medium! And, with any luck, his snowfriend would be around for a good long while. Sherlock could get used to being with a friend, so that when he met a real boy, he would know what to do.

So Sherlock spent the better part of a day building his snowfriend. He found two wooden beads, painted blue, in his mother’s sewing box, and used them for eyes. He dug through the snow and found a handful of soft yellow grass, and used it for hair. He used a small twig to carve a mouth, and used two thin slices of red pepper for lips. When his snowfriend was built, Sherlock found an old oatmeal-coloured woolen jumper in a trunk in the attic and pulled it over the head. Then he stepped back and examined his work.

It was well done, he had to admit. He found two sticks and poked them through the sleeves of the jumper for arms, and smoothed out the tummy so it wasn’t as plump. It was absolutely perfect.

Before he went inside for the night, Sherlock piled snow around three sides of the snowman in a sort of fort, to protect it from the wind.

The next morning, Sherlock took his books and his wooden toys and his chemistry set, and packed them in a knapsack. He carried everything carefully out to the garden and sat in the fort with his new friend. He was very careful to do the things he had read about in the book: he gave his friend turns with the toys, and asked him which experiment to do next, and did the one his friend wanted instead of the one he wanted, and at lunchtime he shared his sandwich. It was a struggle at times, because wasn’t used to considering anyone’s opinion but his own, but in his heart he knew this was important.

Sherlock spent the better part of a week playing with his snowfriend, but he began to grow bored. He had a vivid imagination, but even he could only spend so long putting words into the mouth of an inanimate object. It just wasn’t fun anymore, and on the sixth day, he spent barely an hour outside.

“This is dull,” he said. “If you were real you could talk, and we could go places and do things. But you’re just snow.” He kicked the side of the snowman forlornly, and a small chunk of snow broke off.

Sherlock never understood why, but it was imperative that he repair the damage he had caused. He tried his best, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t get the chunk of snow to sit quite as evenly as it had before, and the snowman’s leg had a distinctly lopsided look.

Before bed that night, Mycroft saw Sherlock in the hall. “I debated whether or not to tell you, Sherlock. But it seems unlikely we will ever leave this isolation. The nearest town is hours away. I hope you enjoy your snow person, because it seems unlikely you will ever meet a real one.” His eyes were sharp and soft at the same time. “It sounds cruel, but it is the way of it. I’m sorry, Sherlock.” He left Sherlock and slipped into his own room, locking the door with a click.

Sherlock tossed and turned for most of the night. Even though he knew Mycroft was right, he couldn’t help but wish it otherwise. Finally, he gave voice to the thought that had been churning in his head all night.

“If my snowfriend was alive and could talk, that would be brilliant. I wish he was alive!”

~~

The next morning, Sherlock moped around the house for hours, until his mother told him to go out and get some fresh air. Reluctantly, he packed his books, a sandwich, and his pirate kit (sword and eyepatch), put on his coat and boots, and made his way outside.

Although he wasn’t keen on sitting and talking to himself again, it was quite a bit warmer in his fort than without, so he made his way there. He was reading his book and slowly dissecting his sandwich into its component parts when he heard a voice:

“Can I have some?”

Sherlock jerked his head up. He had never heard that voice before in his life. It wasn’t Mycroft, and it wasn’t Mummy. Who else was there? It spoke again.

“Can I have some?”

The voice was coming from above him. Sherlock slowly tilted his head and looked up.

The blue bead eyes were swiveled down to peer at him. The red-pepper lips were twisted in a hopeful smile. As Sherlock gaped, the lips moved.

“I’m hungry.”

Despite being brought up in isolation, Sherlock had been raised with manners, and they took over automatically. He jumped to his feet, broke off a piece of a sandwich, and held it to the snowman’s lips. Pursed delicately, the lips grasped the bite of sandwich, which went… somewhere.

“Mmm, thank you, that’s good!”

Sherlock could scarcely believe his senses. His snowman, the friend he had built just a week ago, was looking at him, talking to him, eating his sandwich!

“Are you all right?” The snowman’s voice was concerned, if that were possible. Sherlock was quickly revising his assessment of what was and wasn’t possible. He cleared his throat and finally found his voice.

“How did this happen?”

Even though he hadn’t really given the snowman shoulders, Sherlock could swear he saw them shrug. “I don’t know. It just did, I guess. I wasn’t here… and then I was.” The snowman frowned. “You don’t know how this happened?”

“Well, I built you. Your body, I mean. But you weren’t talking to me or anything. And last night Mycroft told me I would never have a real friend, and I wished you were alive!”

The snowman frowned again, as well as it could; the snow around its eyes crinkled and a few flakes floated free. “What’s a Mycroft?”

Sherlock chuckled. “I often ask myself that very question.”

~~

Throughout the winter, Sherlock spent all his free time with his snowfriend, whom he named John, after one of the boys in his book. He felt certain John was male, although he hadn’t really thought about it when he built him, but his voice was decidedly boyish. Although John couldn’t move, Sherlock brought toys to him, sticks and other things to see, small wounded animals, his chemistry set, and food. Sherlock never could figure out what John did with the food he was fed; he certainly had nothing with which to digest it. Twice he arrived to find John mumbling rather than speaking; both times birds had stolen his lips, and Sherlock was obliged to slice more red peppers to replace them.

Sherlock considered putting John in a sled and pulling him around the garden so he could see something beyond his fort, but he was convinced of the poorness of the plan the first time he tried to pick John up. It was incredible, how much that amount of snow weighed. As well, tiny bits of snow rained from John’s body, which the snowman found most distressing; Sherlock had to spend a good part of the day patting snow back onto his friend.

Every night, Sherlock wished with all his might that John might somehow become _really_ real. He spoke and blinked and ate; was it so far-fetched? But it never came true.

Finally, Sherlock could ignore the facts no longer: winter was coming to an end. Here and there tufts of grass had begun poking through the snow, and there were more birds and small animals in the woods than before. Sherlock realised that his friend would literally disappear, unless he could find a way to save him. But he knew he had to act fast; in a week, one wall of the snow fort disintegrated, and the warm wind began cutting through the others. John’s jumper was perpetually sodden as he too melted.

Sherlock stayed up all night, trying to think of a solution. There was room for John in the freezer, but only if he was separated into smaller parts. He wouldn’t be allowed to use fans to blow cold air onto John, and anyway, cold air from a fan was still warmer than snow. All he would be doing was hastening John’s demise.

The day dawned warm and breezy, and Sherlock knew this was the end. He had tried his best to think of a way to save John, and he had failed. He dragged himself out to the remains of his snow fort, feeling worse than he had ever felt in his life.

John was still in one piece, but barely. One of his arms had come loose from his body and hung brokenly in its sleeve at his side. His head lolled at an angle, and one of his bead eyes had sunk into his head.

Sherlock sniffled and wiped his nose on his sleeve as he stared at his melting friend. The snow dripped down the snowman’s face like tears.

“I’ve enjoyed spending this winter with you, Sherlock,” John said. His voice was growing gurgly, as though he was under water. “I hope you rebuild me next winter.”

Scrubbing his arm across his eyes, Sherlock sniffled loudly. Of course he would rebuild John next winter, but it wouldn’t be the same. He would be older, and John would just be the same snowman. Sherlock couldn’t endure it. A dam broke somewhere deep within him and he sobbed bitterly.

“I don’t understand!” He gulped in air as his nose clogged up.

“What don’t you understand, Sherlock?”

“I waited and waited… Mummy says… good things… and I waited all winter, and you were real, and not real, and I waited all winter… She says good things come to those who wait and I waited… and good things come to good people…”

The realisation hit Sherlock like thunder. He cried harder, and he felt his heart breaking.

“I waited and waited and it didn’t happen! I wanted more than anything for you to be real, really alive, and it didn’t come true, but good things come to good people… I’m not good!”

“Sherlock…” Sighed John. But before he could finish his sentence, the last bit of snow melted away, and John’s head rolled off his shoulders.

Sherlock shrieked, and ran.

He ran and ran, into the woods near the house, until his lungs were burning. His eyes were streaming and he couldn’t see, and finally tripped over a log.

He stayed on the slushy ground, leaning against the log, sobbing for what seemed like hours. His heart was broken, and he would never be whole again. This was indisputable proof: he would never have a real friend. Not because Mycroft was right, because they were isolated, but because he was a horrible, hateful person. He would never sail boats… never climb trees…

“Sherlock?” The voice was hesitant, but so familiar. Sherlock’s head snapped up and he wiped his eyes.

Standing in front of him, dressed in a soaking jumper, was—

“John!” Sherlock cried.

The boy was shorter than Sherlock, but stockier. He had blue eyes and tufts of blond hair, and the jumper reached to his knees, the sleeves covering his hands. His skin was creamy white, not the stark white of snow.

Sherlock couldn’t believe his eyes. How was this possible?

“How…?”

“I don’t know,” said John, spreading his arms. Sherlock was happy to see he had both, even though one had fallen off when John was still a melting snowman. He seemed to be favouring one leg; Sherlock thought this was from when he had kicked the snowman and tried to replace the missing chunk of snow. He felt guilt; John would always limp, because of him.

But his awe and delight overwhelmed his guilt. John was here! Alive! _Really here and alive!_ Sherlock reached out hesitantly and took John’s arm. He pushed up the sleeve and touched John’s skin. It was warm, and he could feel the pulse thrumming under the skin.

“You wished for me, and it came true,” John said. “That’s all I know.”

Sherlock smiled so widely, he thought his jaw would break.

~~

Mummy was confused and surprised by John’s appearance. Inquiries about him turned up nothing; no one was missing a blond boy with blue eyes. So John was allowed to stay, and he and Sherlock became inseparable.

They did all the things friends do, and more. And they grew older, and argued occasionally, and once John got so angry he didn’t speak to Sherlock for three days, until Sherlock made him a sandwich and brought it to John’s room, and sat in the hall and refused to leave until John ate the sandwich and forgave him. And sometimes in the secret places of his heart, Sherlock wished their friendship would become something more, but he didn’t wish as fervently as he did when he was younger, because he had already gotten his heart’s desire.

Besides, good things do come to those who wait, so he was content to wait. And good things really do happen to good people, and Sherlock knew he was a good person. 

**Author's Note:**

> the definition of "Friend" Sherlock reads is from dictionary.com


End file.
